If you eat these petals, before retiring

Through properties as yet unbeknownst to modern science

Sight will be restored

Mrs A Clarke of Winnipeg saw meteors on

A new horizon, she thought the chariots had arrived

Short-sightedness completely cured

Mr Robertson of Manitoba saw, the grain of skin

Like an isthmus in his child’s hand

Held firmly to cross highway 26, sick with salted ice

From the woods near St François Xavier 
Home where the fire was the orange

Of his mother’s tongue, strangely bright and black

With summer’s laughing frozen fruit

Spilled accidentally in the kitchen sink

Dishes high as Babylon

The far-sought malaise, gone in the panchromatic

Wilderness of criss-crossing lines

Sarah Clawson, aged fifty-four, of Mobile, Alabama

Insomniac and half-prayered with macular degeneration
Reversed the waterfall rush, the flowers broken

Steeped, in a kind of tea, with sugar cubes

She could still get, because the factory was old fashioned

A bitter taste, but despite the door quite crooked

Swinging freely in the sycamore breeze

I guess, praise be, the frame’s bent too, she writes

In her thank-you note, vision now restored

The distortions in her peripheries

Where the dead once talked

Almost completely smooth, because

With a firm but gentle hand, the jags of fractures spreading

She crushed to sintered aromats

These falling petals